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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Thomas Lesh

Published on: 2/12/2008

I have seen them borne on the hard wind
Empty hands pressed upon the window
Grasping hands that scuttle along the pavement
Only to take flight once more
That in their patterns
We should know the force that drives them
Swirling before it.

In the end it is the passing that matters,
The dervish beauty uncomplicated by design.
Death and rebirth
Rendered in this random embrace
Are inconsequential to the dance
That leaves behind bare branches
Bearing green memories without regret.

Published on: 2/12/2008

On a warm November day
I have opened the house,
All the doors and windows,
To let the lady bugs inside.
In the morning they are scattered in splendor
About the floor and the ledges and the courtyard,
All the jewels of the orient,
Such bounty cannot another hour buy.

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